Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1989

“I know what I’m about to say is going to sound cliché, but I don’t think she’s coming.”

Hob took his eyes off the door that kept opening without letting the man he wanted to see inside. He turned to the waitress who’d interrupted his dark thoughts. With some effort, he even managed to smile at her. A smile costs nothing, after all, but God, it was so difficult to smile tonight! He pretended to check his watch, as if he didn’t know how long he’d been waiting.

“Know what? I think you’re right. He won’t come.”

The waitress blushed.

“Oh. Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed... Not that there’s anything wrong with that!”

Hob half-choked. He brought his glass of whiskey to his lips to steady himself. Like everything else, morality had changed these last few centuries, but this waitress was still a century or two ahead of her time, given the homophobic remarks Hob had heard on the subway that same morning. She didn’t even look as if she belonged to the community. She was just a young girl with her head on her shoulders and her heart in the right place. Hob smiled again. It was easier this time. He liked this girl.

“No, it’s nothing. Anyway, it wasn’t... We weren’t like that.”

“But you wanted to tell him,” the waitress said with some sympathy.

Hob’s gaze, already drawn back to the door, went back to her. She looked sincere. Her posture conveyed a mix of curiosity and empathy. He didn’t see any desire to hear some gossip that would make the rounds of the pub’s waiters in less than a day. It was always refreshing to meet people like her.

With a second glance around the room, Hob realised the pub was almost empty. It was nearly eleven o’clock. Perhaps the waitress hoped that getting him to talk would help him get over the Stranger’s absence and make him leave sooner, allowing her to close for the night a few minutes earlier. Hob almost apologised and paid for his drink before going home. Once there, he could down an entire bottle of something to help him fall asleep, but it was rare in the late 20th century to find someone willing to take the time to chat. People were always in a hurry these days. Poor things, they barely took the time to live. They rushed from home to work, from work to home, and from work to the grave without breathing. Hob would have given them the recipe for happiness if he had thought they’d believe him. He didn’t understand how anyone could live like this. If he hadn’t been afraid of looking like an old fool, Hob would have said it was because of television, but Hob hated looking like an old fool, especially when the people he was thinking about were a few centuries younger than he was. All this to say that it was better to pour one’s heart out to a friendly waitress than into an empty bottle.

But how could one talk about his Stranger without sounding crazy and attracting the attention of someone like Johanna Constantines? If he said he was as miserable as stones because a friend of six or seven centuries refused to accept they were indeed friends, because needing friends was a weakness when you lived as long as they did. Hob didn’t even think his Stranger was wrong to refuse him. He wasn’t the only one who had burned his wings playing that game. It wasn’t just Robyn and Eleanor whose memories hurt like a sword thrust into his stomach. But tell that to a student who worked in a pub to pay her rent!

She still expected an answer. Such patience was rare. A psychology student, perhaps? Or just a good listener. Anyway, it wasn’t as if she was entirely wrong in thinking Hob wanted to tell his Stranger that...

Fuck. He couldn’t even think those three words in his head. After six centuries of meeting, just the word friendship had offended the Stranger, so he had better keep his thoughts to himself. Not that Hob had ever dared to dream of more. He knew the Stranger couldn’t read his mind, but he’d always been afraid of giving himself away if he even dared to think about it. One thing at a time, Hob Gadling. First, grab your Stranger as soon as he walks through that door and drag him by the scruff of the neck to this chair. Then... We’ll see if he’s moody, very moody, or horribly moody. It’s not midnight yet. He can still come, right? As for that girl, you can talk to her about your friendship, letting her think there’s more to it. If she’s a romantic, that’s her problem, not mine.

“If I wanted to tell him... Yes and no,” he finally admitted aloud so as not to bore his already very patient interlocutor. “I tried to tell him several times over the years, but we rarely saw each other, and it was never the right time. Either someone would interrupt us, or I’d ruin everything.”

In the first category, Will Shakespeare in 1589 and Johanna Constantine in 1789. In the second, Hob in 1589 and 1889. The only times he hadn’t ruined everything, the Stranger had still grown tired of his presence quickly, and Hob hadn’t dared to beg him to stay.

“But this time you thought it would be the right one.”

“More like hoping,” Hob sighed. “But we parted on bad terms last time. The chances were already slim that he would listen before. If I had a chance, it’s gone.”

“There’s always next time.”

Hob snorted.

“Knowing him, the next time will be in a hundred years from now, here in this pub.”

The waitress raised an amused eyebrow.

“He's got a temper, your friend.”

This time, Hob laughed.

“You have no idea.”

“Oh, but I do. My oldest brother is like that. The number of times he’s stormed out, even if it was just over a loosely sealed jar of pickles... But you know, sometimes people like them regret what they’ve done immediately after. They just don’t know how to say they’re sorry. Here, I’ll bet you a pound your friend will be here tomorrow, all sheepish at the pub’s opening, half-expecting you to be there too, and he’ll pretend nothing happened, and that you came a day early not the other way around.”

“I’d like to believe you.”

The waitress rummaged in her apron. She pulled out her order book and tore off two sheets of paper.

“Write to him. Tell him all this, and put your phone number on the other piece of paper. I’ll keep the note, and if I see him tomorrow or during the week, I’ll give it to him and call you right away. You can count on me; I’m here all week. And if not, you’ll come pick up your pound.”

“I’ll take the bet, but I’ll also leave you a tip, because I very much doubt I’ll lose.”

“Don’t be such a defeatist, or I’ll think you’re as grumpy as he is. We’ll see who’s right. Anyway, it would be better for him to make up with you now, because the pub won’t be there in a hundred years, or even next year. They just sold the place to build apartments and offices. Idiots. No one has any respect for old buildings anymore.”

She was still speaking, but there was a ringing in Hob’s ears, and he couldn’t hear a word. The White Horse, destroyed? It was an institution! The girl was right; so many traces of the past had disappeared already, but even when London had burned and even when the Nazis had bombed it, the White Horse had remained standing. There weren’t many traces of Hob’s youth left in London, especially ones that weren’t originally palaces or had become characterless museums. Above all, it was the place of his rendezvous with the Stranger. Even if something had kept him from coming this time, even if his precious honour prevented him from apologising or made him pretend nothing had happened, where would they meet in a hundred years?

“Are you okay? You look strange. You haven’t had too much to drink, have you?”

“I’m fine. Everything is fine. Leave the paper; I’ll see if inspiration strikes.”

With a slightly nervous smile, the waitress left him to clean up a table that had just been vacated by its occupants.

Once alone, Hob dubiously looked at the two sheets of paper. His Stranger had always struck him as the kind who could hold a grudge for two or three centuries straight without taking his breath, then bring it out again three or four centuries later, just for the pleasure of spreading the fire. And what could one possibly say in writing to someone they’d only met six times in as many centuries, especially with the risk that the kind waitress would ultimately turn out to be a gossip and read his letter? She could discover his secret. Not to mention that picking up a pen wasn’t Hob’s strong suit. When he first learned to write, paper was too scarce and expensive to waste on talking about his feelings, and since there was no time to waste teaching peasants like him to read or write, it had taken Hob almost forty years to overcome his apprehension about the written word and truly take it up. It wasn’t until he met Eleanor that he learned to enjoy writing letters and reading, but when faced with a difficult letter to write, he always had to fight off a moment of panic.

First of all, how to begin such a letter? “To my handsome and mysterious stranger” was Hob’s first instinct, but even after four beers, he knew it was a bad idea. They weren’t close enough for Hob to allow himself such familiarity, and he knew his Stranger wouldn’t like to see such a phrase pass under the waitress’s gaze. “My dear friend” or “my friend” weren’t better. If his Stranger still opposed Hob’s use of those words, the Stranger would disappear forever. If he weren’t, Hob wanted the privilege of being able to say them directly to each other. Even “dear stranger” would raise too many questions.

Inspiration suddenly struck Hob. He grabbed his ballpoint pen, that wonderful invention, and wrote two words at the top of the sheet of paper: “Dere Unkouth”, “dear stranger.” It was unlikely the waitress would be so curious as to spend days in a library translating two words straight out of the 14th century.

Hob took a deep breath and smiled. These two words seemed right on the paper. They weren’t too telling, nor too memorable, but he would write the rest of the letter in modern English.

“Dere Unkouth, I often think about our last meeting and wonder if it’s the same for you. The last time I saw you, I made you smile, a hope I had long kept and had abandoned. I would have liked to celebrate this victory, but I had to come and spoil everything by talking about friendship. Let one thing be clear before I continue. I don’t regret the words I said, and I won’t regret them even if I live a thousand years more. I only regret the words I said about your loneliness, or rather, the way I used them. I was too happy to outshine you for once, and I forgot about your damned pride. If you want me to, I’m ready to swallow those words and resume this discussion where we left it, or we could go back to our old conversation about progress and the passing of time. Read it here before you hear it from me: it was entirely my fault. However, I believe you too have some apologies to offer me for the contempt you displayed when speaking of me that day. Dare I say I wasn’t deserving of it for once? Let’s assume, then, that the wrongs are mutual, that you apologise for those condescending words and I apologise for my haste in making you acknowledge things you weren’t ready to acknowledge, or that were completely false, whichever you prefer. Since we’ve known each other for so long, we both know that sooner or later, we always end up saying words that go beyond our thoughts. No words will ever make me not want to see you again. You know where and when to find me, but if you need help, want company, or even want to treat another living being with that mixture of contempt and affection that characterises you, contact me.”

Hob reached the end of the sheet and put down his pen. The style he used might have been a little old-fashioned, but Hob had more trouble keeping up with the written words than with the spoken words, and his instincts told him that this kind of letter would please his Stranger more than a curt, “I apologise, let’s do this again sometime, I’ll buy the beers.”

And apparently, Hob was wrong. Even in writing, he had a lot to say to his mysterious Stranger. Better yet, his Stranger couldn’t get away with it, pretending he wasn’t his friend, or choose to go make deals with William Shakespeare instead. Hob should have done that long ago, writing down what he thought and forcing his letters into the Stranger’s hands as he left. He honestly doubted that this tactic would have improved things, or that the Stranger wouldn’t have crumpled his letter and left it in a ditch.

That idea amused him. Hob raised his head to share it with his Stranger, but he wasn’t there. That was the entire purpose of that letter. Hob looked around. He was one of the last three customers left. He scribbled his address and phone number on the second piece of paper, then went to the counter, paid for his drink, and slipped the note to the waitress with a description of his Stranger before leaving, a smile on his lips that disappeared as soon as he walked out the door. Would she read the letter? Would he? If she had been hoping to find something compromising in it, she was mistaken. After six hundred years, the Stranger resented being addressed as a friend. Hob didn’t even dare imagine what would happen if he dared hope for more than that.

The following week, he waited for a call saying that the Stranger had stopped by the White Horse, in vain. All the while, the hand that had held the pen itched terribly. When he got no answer, he forced himself to forget and move on, even though he knew it was impossible. He knew he had hurt his Stranger, but had he really hurt him that badly? Would he have to wait a whole century for the Stranger to lick his wounds in some dark corner? Hob didn’t know how he was going to cope with this uncertainty, but he would.

What other choice did he have?

Chapter Text

1990

Min frend,

Since you are still ignoring a year after our supposed meeting, I have decided that I will use the title you refused me one hundred and a year from now, on the principle that the absent are always wrong. If you still disagree with that word, you can tell me so yourself. Sometimes I wonder if you ever came to the White Horse to inquire about me. Lucy, the waitress who told me to write to you a year ago, no longer works there, and I didn’t dare ask about you around. No one wants a repeat of that day in 1789. I almost got burned for witchcraft once before. Never again. I’m still not Jewish, you’re still not the Devil, but let’s not take unnecessary risks by drawing too much attention to ourselves. That is true for me, and that is true for you. Do you hear me? Not that you’re the type of man to ask for or accept advice from a man like me.

Your silence both worries and annoys me. I knew you were irascible, but not that your anger was so deep that it would last a hundred years, just to make a point. Since you haven’t shown up, I write to tell you what I would have said a year ago if you’d given me the chance. I promise I won’t even go into apologies or admonitions even if I’m tempted.

Instead, let’s pretend for a moment that we never get into an argument. Like every other time, I suppose you wanted to ask me what happened in the last 100 years since our meeting and whether I still want to live, so here’s your answer, and it won’t surprise you: yes, a hundred times, a thousand times yes! How can you not want to live in a time like this? Are you kidding? Yes, humanity went through some of its worst moments in the 20th century and I’m amazed at how much damage we can do. Not in a good way! I’m old, probably not as much as you, but old enough that I’ve seen the worst of humanity again and again. I’ve seen two world wars, millions of deaths, and an infinite capacity for inventing new means or reasons for killing each other, but when the truth about the concentration camps came out... I’ll be honest, I almost lost faith in us that day, and many times since. Has that ever happened to you? Probably. Your eyes are too cold when they rest on us for it to be otherwise, but I forgive you for your lack of face. God knows we give few reasons to be loved, as a species! But I won’t waste words on those two wars or the Cold War that followed, nor on the atomic bomb. We live under its constant threat now, and we have been through so many horrors, but they are behind us, and we have learned from our mistakes. No one will ever use such a weapon, and even if I’m not simple enough to believe any war will be the last of all wars, at least we have learned to stand up collectively to say no to genocide, no to ignorance, no to the destruction of our humanity, and that yes, some causes will always be worth defending. That’s what I want to remember from the 20th century. It was terrible, but it was also magnificent.

And while we wait for the next war, have you seen everything they’re inventing? The last time we saw each other, there were so many inventions that I would never have guessed would exist someday. In 1878, the refrigerator. In 1880, the electric lamp. 1885, vaccines. 1889, the steam car, and just after we met, 1891, toilet paper. Don’t laugh. People would have killed for something like this in 1389. I doubt toilet paper would have helped with the plague, but it would have spared us plenty of other nasty things. In terms of hygiene, I put toilet paper on the same level as handkerchiefs and vaccines. And the telephone! It was invented in the last century, and just when I’m no longer impressed with it, they’ve made it a portable box. Apparently, the next one will be even smaller and lighter. People complained they are too heavy! What are they complaining about? They’re still lighter than a sword. No, I think it’s definitely the cell phone that impresses me the most. We’re never alone anymore, never far from the people we love. We share their lives, even from a distance. People exchange numbers like they exchanged business cards in the last century. How nice is that?

Sometimes I enjoy imagining what it would have been like if we had had these machines in my time. Can you imagine Elizabeth I calling Shakespeare to ask for a private performance at her castle? I can, and it’s hilarious. Imagine me opening my fridge to see what I have that might satisfy her royal appetite. My Robin would have loved photography, if only because it would have saved him hours of posing for the two portraits I had made of him. And computers... Oh, I can’t even guess how many more things they’ll discover with this one! Some say it’s useless, or that it won’t change the world, but they’re wrong, I know they are. It’s true, I’ve been wrong on that score in the past, but this time I’m sure of myself. Computers are the future.

I know what you’re thinking. “What will they think next?” you asked me during our second meeting. I didn’t realise at the time that you had said it with contempt. You don’t like us very much, do you? Mind you, I don’t blame you, not after everything I saw, but give us a chance and you’ll see what we’ll do with these inventions! I know I love them. I buy everything I can afford, and I have the money to afford it at the moment. Most of the gadgets aren’t that useful, but I can’t help it; I feel like a kid discovering new toys every day by the Christmas tree. If you had told me a hundred years ago that humans would invent instant coffee and cell phones, I wouldn’t have believed you, let alone six or seven centuries ago... Even poor people have access to a level of comfort that dukes and barons would never have imagined. Hot water. I still haven’t got over that invention.

And that’s not all! Infant and maternal mortality are lower than ever. Today, my Eleonore and our nameless little girl would be alive, saved by science. Soon, no parent will go through what I did. People will eventually eradicate AIDS, that new plague, like cancer. They’re working on it. The plague, the old one, is gone or nearly. We eradicated smallpox. No more major pandemics, except for the flu here and there. We’ll soon reach a point where people will only die of old age and accidents. Can you imagine that? I do. And I’ll live long enough to see it.

Death. What a fool’s bargain. You’ll never hear me say otherwise, do you hear me?

All these inventions are worth the rest we’ve experienced since 1914. That, and the social progress. Racism hasn’t disappeared, but you can marry someone of a different skin colour, and homosexuality has been decriminalised. For me, that was amazing enough, but young people already have another fight on their minds now: same-sex marriage. And I’ll tell you, my head is spinning. I would have thought not being hanged for what you feel was enough, but I am wrong, and they are right to want more. Some fights are never over, and just being left alone shouldn’t be enough. These young people come with ideas that would never have come to me, but I’m here to support them, however I can. Every Pride is a delight. Last time, I saw a tall guy, almost two meters taller, and he was in stilettos with enough makeup to make Queen Elizabeth, my Queen, say he had put a little too much paint on his face, and no one bothered him for that. Who would have thought that we could be ourselves anywhere other than on the stage of a theatre? I know some artists of my time who would be stunned to see the times we live in. Sometimes it makes me want to cry, especially because I don’t have their courage. Maybe I’m too old, or maybe old habits are hard to break.

Did you knew this about me? Is that why you rejected my offer of friendship? But I’ll stop there. These are questions I’d prefer to ask you with a good whiskey between us, even if you wouldn’t drink it any more than you ate the feast I served you so long ago. It wouldn’t matter anyway if you didn’t drink it with me, as long as you are here to watch me drink and listen, maybe even talk about you for once. Sometimes it’s the thought that counts, and I will offer you this glass someday, I swear it. I have all the time in the world. As for your opinion about my inclinations, I know you’d hate for me to guess things about you, but I don’t think I’m wrong in saying that it doesn’t matter to you.

I hope I’m right. This would be the third time I’m disappointed in you, but this time I’m sure you won’t let me down.

I think you’ve gathered from reading between the lines that I’m fine, if the subject still interests you. This century has left its mark on me, of course, but I’ve been through too many wars to let these memories bring me down, even if it was worse than any I’ve ever been through. I took up the soldier’s uniform again for a while, because even if wars have long seemed meaningless to me, sometimes a man must do his duty as a human being, which is to put an end to some atrocities as quickly as possible. I did my part in these two wars, no more, no less than the others. In any case, I put down the soldier’s uniform without any regrets. If I never don the military uniform again, it will always be too soon.

After the last war, there were a few complicated moments and investments that didn’t pay off. I’ve been a cashier, not by choice, a garbage collector, still not by choice, then a bookseller, a job I really enjoyed, a shoemaker, a night watchman, a cook, and now a teacher. I admit I chose this job to make you laugh. Me, Hob Gadling, a peasant’s son and illiterate mercenary from the 14th century, teaching the history I saw unfold before my eyes but didn’t always experience? Laughable. But sometimes you get caught up in the game, and it’s actually one of my favourite jobs so far. I’ve kept a few of my students’ worst essays for you. If they don’t at least bring a smile to your face, I’ll quit.

And I was forgetting to talk about my travels! Barely three centuries ago, people spoke dreamily of Cipango, the Americas, the kingdom of Prester John, and now the Far East is barely a handful of hours away. I’ve travelled a few times since my time, including one to India in the 19th century, but I never imagined I could visit so many places in such a short time, though I’m not sure what to think about it. It’s amazing, but at the same time I think that when the fact of travelling became so trivial it took away some of the magic. You don’t encounter sea serpents on a plane. There are no more mysteries. The good thing is that this new proximity to the rest of the world also forces us to confront the consequences of our actions and our prejudices. I’m referring to myself here, even if quite a few people have still a long road to take toward tolerance. I can’t thank you enough for helping me leave the slave trade, but I find it hard to travel to Africa and America nowadays. Seeing what I helped to destroy and build leaves a taste of ashes in my mouth. Colonisation is a scourge from which it will take time for us as a species to recover, but Tokyo! Bali! All these splendid landscapes, barely touched by man!

Have you seen these places? Are you there today? I find it hard to imagine you in a swimsuit on a beach or strolling down a shopping avenue with bags full of souvenirs, but if you wan’t to take some holidays, there are many places I could recommend to you if we could talk face-to-face. I treat myself by travelling when I can. Why deprive myself when planes are so cheap? And I want to see everything, not like a tourist in a hurry, but every detail, to soak up the smells, the atmosphere. I have all the time in the world, and now I have the entire world at my disposal.

God, when you think about it, it’s so unbelievable. Sometimes I stop mid-sentence and realise what’s happening to me, how lucky I am to have come this far, and how much I still have to discover.

As you can see, I’ve continued to lead my life to the best I can. It has its ups and downs, but for now, it’s the good life. Let’s enjoy it while it lasts. Still, I must say that I have to be more careful than before. In the last century, photography already posed some problems for me. I could ask a painter to slim me down a little or change my nose so I wouldn’t look too much like myself in the next generation, but photography is less forgiving, especially with today’s cameras, which are so much more precise. Governments are increasing surveillance everywhere. It worries me. I may have to exile myself to a less developed country or become an eccentric hermit for a decade or two if things continue this way, but I still have a little time before things get too worrying, and nothing will make me miss our next meeting, anyway.

We have time, you might say, but I’m not so sure. I’ve started a battle with the city hall to save the White Horse Inn. In case you didn’t know, it may not survive another century, but I’m not the only one angry with the city about it, far from it. It will take time and a lot of money to win this fight, but I currently have both. I had the good sense to bet on IT before it developed seriously, and my investments are paying off. This idea didn’t work as well as printing it did at the time, but I have enough money to build another inn while I wait to win this fight. So, it’s at the New Inn that you’ll find me if you’re looking for me between now and our next meeting. I know I’ll be waiting for you there as soon as it’s open. After all, a pub is as good a place as any to grade papers.

Don’t make me wait a hundred years, min unkouth. I accused you of feeling lonely, but it’s I who feels the loneliness of having to move on without the knowledge I’ll ever see you again. The world is still as fascinating as ever, life is still too beautiful to die, but it’s very dull without someone with whom I share what I saw. You do not know how long the first century of my existence was, when I wondered if I had dreamed you and if you would really be there at the first meeting. The certainty of your return helped me get through the bad years. Don’t let me languish. If we’re not friends, let’s at least be two strangers moving in the same direction, on the long road to eternity.

So, while waiting to see you again, I am, dear Stranger, your respectful servant,

Hob.

P.S.: It’s now 1993. The New Inn is open. Where are you?

I miss our meetings, as rare as they were. Come back.